Like this:

Yes, I’m leading with that because I might as well– it’s what the naysayers will swear up and down I’m arguing for in this post anyway, and I’ve already made my peace with it. Several men from inside my own progressive Christian camp have already tried to misrepresent my argument this way, and I know…

Hmm…Great write from Samantha Field. When does persuasive cajoling, repeated requests and nuzzling until she agrees become signs of complementarian sex rather than romantic foreplay? Is perhaps the simple anger of one spouse when rebuffed or the ensuing guilt-trip when no sex occurs, an indicator that complementarian sex is expected to occur, and justified in the traditional marriage construct? “Complicated grey areas,” says Samantha Field.

Like this:

When I wake up it is a new day, but I’m still trying to pull back the weekend’s sunrises.

Monday’s sun shines in the window, finds my face, slowly brings me to waking and with eyes open, the pillow cradles this mind for longer than it should, while my heart gets a grasp on our priorities.

It is another day of away. Repasser.

I climb from the bed, stretch my hand to my drawer where I pull the phone from its wired recharge, fumble the password, twice, and look for the little blue envelope telling me your words are waiting- slumbering and still sleeping maybe- but here, nested in the palm of my hand.

You are my peace.

You are my tranquil.

We find a center, a balance.

Slide over and wrap that leg over me.

Place your ear on my shoulder close enough to hear my heart beating as yours.

Palm my rib, stroke my chest, cup me,

Breathe me in.

There are so many ways to express the connection, yet repeated I love yous are both inadequate and necessary food for a lover’s daily consumption.

In my stubborn grasp lies wait the possibilities I choose to crave. I know better than to selfishly cross boundaries but I allow it, this time, because I simply cannot deny myself your beautiful heart. I love you is nearly enough, but not. We are worth more.

You are here, slide over.

Groggy good mornings whispered hot on my neck before the rising

Just wanted to share this bite of blueberry pie with you

Lie back

Hold my hand in yours, like we do

I want your voice

I want a time when I don’t have to miss you

.

One day at a time is the plan. She pulls his Saturday shirt from the drawer, pulls it over her head drinking in his scent. Thumbs to her waistline, she drops Monday’s panties to her ankles. In one practiced movement she kicks them up to her fingers and slips them under his pillow for Tuesday’s return.

Like this:

In my dream I drag you into the front car and together, we fly down the steepness, holding on to what seems solid, we are at the mercy of the forces of physics and time.

We choose to link ourselves to the rails of steel where the mindset of the operator determines our ride. We lock in, clamp down, race on the track, beg for soft landings.

We pose for the snap of the camera at the turn of curve five where the sharp change of direction snaps necks. On cue, heads thrown back into our seats, we still give them the smile for the capture of the money shot. We look down and see our families below, dancing and nodding. At the exit we stop to pay more for the heart shaped frame.

Facing adrenaline fears is worth the price of the ticket say the sellers at the door. All around us others are lined up in the aisles, hand in hand, no cold feet on a summer day. The ride is longer than we imagined it might be. The conversation strained in the ups and downs. The comforting hand patting my knee slides up to my inner thigh and leaves bruises.

In my dream I recognize a younger me in the frame. I am wearing white, his ascot tie is secured with a diamond pin. I reach for the headboard to steady myself and hang the happy grimace above the bed.

Like this:

Going through an unplanned but necessary adjustment to my world shows stark unknown revelations . Perhaps they are similar to those leaving a life behind. Perhaps others carry the same emotional connections to routines into the next chapter?

Like this:

I will remember the contrast of stillness to a sharp awakening, the quivering eruptions on flesh gone suddenly cold, but so alive at your strike. You knew all of me. You found your strongest gentle side.

I remember the quest to put admirable lessons into the memories of our muses, contentment from pews full of knowers when our days were done. Pitiful goals, we abandoned them in salute to our fit.

I will remember to never settle for less than a knee-weakening kiss. So telling. Listen.

I will remember the the awareness of how little I knew once. I am forever indebted to my teachers. To yours. Lessons good and not.

I will remember his attempted tether through suggestion of my inaccuracies and perceptions, the misunderstanding of physical poetic desire, his understanding of sensual energy, borne raw in touch and birthed and cradled in the arms of conversation and wit.

Engage. Be heard. Learn, I implored. I was speaking to myself, before all others.

Above all, I remember my willingness to walk, the power of my place in my time and of my choice.

When do we admit our worth is at stake?

.

She embraced the humbled strength of experience, tolerance fired with the heat of perspective.